What Happens When I Try

The music comes out sad,
no matter how happy
I try to make it.
All my virtuosity goes
out the window when
I am bent,
fingers to the strings.

The pulse is slow
and the harmonies,
overlapping,
building to crescendo,
patiently.

The words are happy
and hopeful,
no matter the darkness
I try to throw in,
the complex emotions
and enthralling stories
I try to follow are all
dead ends
as my fingers bend
to the keys.

It’s never what I hope for,
it’s never what I have planned,
but for each way,
there is a voice,
there is a truth.
There is truth that
I can’t plan.
It just happens.

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